


Take What You Need

by Kieron_ODuibhir



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Clones, Fictober 2018, Gen, Ninja Children, Septuplets, Siblings, Tim is a good bro, albeit in weird ways sometimes, cloning ethics and small unit tactics, inadvisable childcare tactics, that are more or less justified under ths circumstances, though a court of law might not agree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 05:33:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kieron_ODuibhir/pseuds/Kieron_ODuibhir
Summary: Seven fugitives from the League of Deadly Assassins made it all the way to Gotham before their pursuers caught up. Seven very small fugitives.Tim couldn'tnothelp.





	Take What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from tumblr by request! This was fictober prompt 5 last year.

“Take what you need,” Tim said, waving toward the tiny armory, and he probably shouldn’t have been surprised that the little tribe of assassins immediately started pushing and shoving to get at the best gear.

It made sense to have his armory in an easily concealed recess when it was just for him; he hadn’t anticipated it being utilized as a weapons buffet for a small army.

He decided to let them sort that out amongst themselves. “No murder,” he directed, sinking into his chair, his hands already going a mile a minute over the keys as he checked all his systems for updates and alerts.

“We wouldn’t,” said one of them.

“Not each other,” said another, which Tim could tell by rhythm, but not by any difference in the sound.

A lot of people wouldn’t be treating them like people. Tim knew that. The impulse had been there for him, too, especially when the suspicious little face staring up at him in septuplicate had been that of someone he had never gotten along with, who had in fact consistently used his every moment of generosity or compassion against him.

But he couldn’t call himself Conner’s friend and not respect the rights of a bunch of clones who’d run away from their maker seeking independence.

If they turned out to be evil then he’d regret arming them, but he had a lot of sympathy for how naked they obviously felt without any means of self-defense, and under the circumstances that was a pretty decisive reason to let them at his cache.

No major local Gotham issues developing that he had to somehow balance this with; a relief. No signs of movement from the League as a whole, outside Talia’s personal staff who were _definitely_ moving. No word from the family, either. Had the kids actually made it all the way here without raising any alerts?

He started digging.

“We’re ready,” said one of them, directly to Tim enough that it broke through his screening-out of their ongoing bickering. He looked over.

“None of you _need_ high explosives,” he announced. “ _I_ don’t even carry those unless they’re specifically called for in a mission plan. None of you need any bombs, actually. Put all of those back.”

There was a lot of grumbling, but astonishingly they appeared willing to listen. He hadn’t even needed to invoke the specter of Bruce’s disapproval. New bickering started up as previous trades were declared invalid by those who’d received explosives they weren’t allowed to keep.

Tim was probably very poorly adjusted, six year olds squabbling over grenades shouldn’t be adorable. It was increasingly obvious that either Talia had been educating these telepathically, or letting them out of the tubes for training of some kind. He was used to people whose ages didn’t match their bodies, and these didn’t quite give that vibe, but they weren’t normal, either.

The little boy who’d told him they were done kept staring at Tim; he didn’t seem to be carrying any bombs. He had one of Tim’s bandoliers draped across his chest; it was cinched as tight as it would go and the bottom edge still hung against his upper thigh.

“Yeah?” Tim asked, after the silent staring had gone on long enough.

“You’re helping.”

“Yeah?” Tim repeated, because that wasn’t an answer _or_ a question. “You asked.”

Well, one of them had. They’d all been dressed alike before they started putting on his stuff, he didn’t know which one had called out _wait,_ when he’d pretended he was going to leave them to fight off eight adult ninjas on their own, without weapons.

He’d half-expected someone to call his bluff, or else give up theirs, but the tone of that _wait_ hadn’t been that at all. It had just been.

Well. He’d turned around.

“You brought us to your home.” Did the League disincentivize asking questions? Yes, they did, come to think of it. Damian had avoided asking them too, though it was less obvious when papered over with that much bluster and arrogance and homicide.

“My place was closest,” said Tim. It had been literally a block away.

“You haven’t called anyone else.”

There wasn’t a nice way to say that if they were a trap, he’d prefer it only caught him.

“Do you want me to?” he asked instead.

The little spokesman slowly shook his head. “He’d come. Wouldn’t he.”

Bruce? No. _Damian._ “Robin?” Tim asked.

He still wasn’t happy that the name belonged to the demon brat now, but the little horde had responded to ‘Damians’ when he rallied them after they put the League hunters down, and he didn’t know how uncomfortable it would make them to have it applied to just the original. Assuming he _was_ the original, who even knew. He could be version twelve.

The spokesman nodded.

“You want to avoid him?” Then why come to Gotham?

The little spokesman shrugged.

“We don’t want to see him _yet,_ ” said another boy over his shoulder, one of the ones who’d strung half a dozen grenades on one of Tim’s belts and had now replaced them with smoke bombs.

“Yes,” said the spokesman, whose nickname was already starting to seem ironic.

Tim addressed that. “Okay, and by the way what do I call you? I can’t just keep saying ‘Damians.’”

The Damians, all of them now fully armed and without visible bombs, clumped up briefly for a silent conference. Were they psychic? He hoped they weren’t psychic.

The names they gave when they were done _hopefully_ whispering were just ordinal numbers in Farsi. More horribly, they weren’t contiguous.

“Will more of you be joining us later?” Tim asked, and got ‘no’ from the spokesman in the bandolier, whose number was Sizdahum, thirteenth.

This was not the time and Tim was not the person to compromise their stoicism on that, so he moved on without comment. If they needed to leave Gotham again to avoid meeting Damian before they were ready, that was acceptable to the collective. Yes, they would welcome his help making a satisfactory entrance. Yes, they realized making a good impression on Batman was at least as important as making one on Robin.

“And _now?_ ” asked smoke bomb kid, numbered Haftum, seventh. He was the one who moved the most, was hardly ever still, in contrast to Sizdahum who didn’t seem to move at all without a specific reason. It was going to be a struggle learning to identify them all by cues like this before they used or rearranged some of the equipment he was using to tell them apart for now; Tim suspected they’d forgive some errors.

He shut down most of the processes on his computer, though he left it on in case of any important updates, and turned his back to it. Folded his hands, his elbows propped on his swivel-chair’s arms. He was slightly taller than they were even sitting down.

“Now we plan. Our options are limited, especially if we want to avoid Robin. My defenses here are good against intruders, but if they don’t want you alive they can just destroy the building.”

He looked expectantly at the attentive row of pint-size Damians. Tactical information please, first graders.

“We’re just spares,” scoffed Haftum.

“They won’t hold back,” said Chihaarum, fourth. He was the lowest number in the room, unless you counted Tim, whose number was of course three.

“Ra’s would prefer me alive, but not enough to make it easy for me, and these are Talia’s people. I have a much better-secured bunker some way out of town. If we can shake off pursuit I can access a van that can get us all there. If necessary, I have contacts that can help with extraction to a secure location.”

Kon and Bart would be 100% willing to be called in on this. Tim would rather not risk them, but they couldn’t possibly be the intended targets if this was a trick, so it was better than calling the family, and he wasn’t going to let these kids get _killed_ for his paranoia.

“Objections, concerns?” None were volunteered. Tim could enjoy working with such a professional team if it weren’t so creepy. He initiated system lockdown. “We’d better move out.”

They nodded, and Shishum took point out the roof exit once its location was indicated. Tim let him, because they’d apparently made it halfway around the world without his supervision and he remembered how annoying it had been trying to get adults to take him seriously and having his competence utterly dismissed on the basis of his age.

Tim did insist on being the first one to step out of cover once they were all on the roof. No one seemed to be holding any of the sniper posts that could target his roof, so he motioned the kids after him. Counted them off, 4-6-7-9-11-13-14.

“Chahardahum,” he whispered, identifying the boy by the oversized Kevlar vest he’d thrown on. “Stay lower, we’re trying for stealth. And can I call you Chadah?” He wanted to respect their individuality even if it was _numbers_ , but four syllables, three of them fairly long, wasn’t ideal for this sort of situation, especially when it sounded so similar to Chiharum that no mumbling could be allowed.

The boy named Fourteenth rolled his shoulders in a shrug, then nodded. He didn’t like the idea, clearly, but he accepted it.

“Great. Thanks. Let’s go.” Red Robin took off over the roofs, leading his trail of ducklings and keeping an eye on what their comfortable jumping range was as he tried to plan a sneaky route that was physically possible.

The order they fell into was unexpected, with Shishum at the front instead of a flank and Sizdahum bringing up the rear, and he resisted the urge to give directions about who should be where. They knew their own skillsets better than he did, micromanaging was _not_ going to help here.

Of course, with the size of his current forces, _any_ managing he did would be micro.


End file.
